


You Were Not Part of the Plan

by thisisthefamilybusiness



Category: Hannibal (TV), Red Dragon - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Fallout, Emotional Manipulation, Future Fic, Gen, Gratuitous References to Chess, Guilt, Mental Health Issues, Nobody helped Will Graham, References to Canon-Typical Violence and Cannibalism, Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisthefamilybusiness/pseuds/thisisthefamilybusiness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stop apologising. You were just doing your job, Alana. All the evidence pointed to me." "I let Hannibal get you, Will, I recommended him. Jack wanted me to work with you and I said no and I sent you right into Hannibal's clutches. I trusted him, Will, I ignored all the warning signs, I played right into his plans." Alana's voice breaks, goes up an octave as she swallows around the sudden lump in her throat. "I believed Hannibal."</p><p>Fill for the following prompt:"After Will proves his innocence everyone has to deal with the emotional fallout from wrongfully accusing Will of murder and sending him to the one place he always feared he'd end up- the mental institution. Jack and Alana feel guilty for everything- introducing Will to Hannibal, insisting on therapy, trusting Hannibal implicitly, not noticing the signs of his encephalitis until it was too late, not believing Will, etc. Will knows logically that it was a perfect frame up job, that they were all just doing their job and following the evidence. But knowing that doesn't stop the feelings of hurt, anger and betrayal at how his friends refused to believe him, to believe in him. I just want everything to be messed up and awkward, with lots of anger and guilt."</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Were Not Part of the Plan

It's humid and hot as hell in the Keys on the Tuesday afternoon Alana comes to visit Will, stifling but for the small relief of the salty breeze that blows across the Gulf. She can feel the heat rolling off the driveway's asphalt in waves as she slams the rental car's door shut, instantly regretting her decision to wear a black skirt and heels in the muggy Florida heat.

The pastel green paint on the small bungalow is peeling, revealing a yellow underlayer, and the lawn (mostly drought-brown crabgrass) needs to be mowed, lending an air of neglect and abandonment, but a golden retriever is relaxing behind the front screen door and there's a beat up green pick-up truck in the driveway.

Alana doesn't have to knock; the dog recognises her, bounding to the door and barking. Six more come rushing over to join the retriever, all different breeds (most of them mutts), tails wagging.

It takes Will a minute to make his way to the door. Unlike his dogs, he doesn't look very enthusiastic to see Alana on his doorstep, makes no move to open the door and let her in.

He looks somehow everything and nothing like in her memories. He's leaner, skin several shades browner from the sun and drawn tighter against his bones and muscles, hair and overgrown five o'clock shadow a little more unkempt looking than before, wearing an undershirt that made probably been white at one point and worn-out jeans that hung off his waist. It makes guilt swell in her chest.

"What are you doing here?" he sighs, folding his arms over his chest.

"I wanted to see you. Make sure you were doing alright." It sounds lame, even to Alana's own ears.

"Did Jack send you?" There's a bitterness in Will's voice that Alana has never heard before (not that she can really blame him) and a slur to his words that makes her wonder if he's already been drinking this morning (not that she can blame him for that, either).

"I don't work for Jack any more, I moved to Chicago. I came to apologise."

Will presses his lips into a thin line and grips the knob of the wooden door, hesitating, as if he was debating what to do or say next. Alana can smell the cheap whiskey on him now and guilt creeps over her again. She helped do this to him.

"Fuck you," he finally mumbles, shooing his dogs away and slamming the heavy storm door closed in her face.

Alana can feel tears prickling at her eyes, but she refuses to cry until she has marched back to her rental car and sat down.

She manages to start the car and crank the AC up with shaking hands before she finally lets herself sob.

* * *

Will calls Alana the next morning, sounding a lot more sober and a little less bitter.

"Uh, I wasn't exactly... myself yesterday," Will says slowly. "Sorry I slammed the door on you like that."

"It's fine. I--I probably deserved it." Alana struggles to keep her voice steady.

"If you want to... try again, there's a Waffle House a few blocks from my house."

"That sounds great."

* * *

It's painfully obvious that Will is uncomfortable to be out and trying to talk to Alana, but he tries to fake relaxation anyways. They both only order cups of coffee when the waitress comes, and Will spends most of their conversation ("conversation" meaning Alana fumbling with small talk laced apologies for everything and Will sitting in stony silence) staring into his own black coffee as it slowly went cold.

"Please stop," Will says quietly.

"What?"

"Stop apologising. You were just doing your job, Alana. All the evidence pointed to me. I--I almost started to believe it myself."

"I let Hannibal get you. I recommended him. Jack wanted me to work with you and I said no and I sent you right into Hannibal's clutches. I trusted him, Will, I trusted him and I let him get you and Abigail Hobbs and who knows how many others, I ignored all the warning signs, I played right into his plans." Alana's voice breaks, goes up an octave as she swallows around the sudden lump in her throat. "I believed Hannibal. I let him make me doubt you. I put you away in the one place I knew you feared most."

Will throws a five dollar bill down on the table and leaves without another word.

* * *

Beverly runs into Will at the bait shop on a fluke; she's on vacation with the guys from the lab and their families (Brian had gotten a killer deal on airline tickets and Jimmy's brother-in-law owned a vacation condo in Sugarloaf Key they could stay at for free).

She almost didn't recognise him at first, he's changed so much. Lost weight he hadn't to spare in the first place, tanned to the kind of brown that said 'outdoor worker', wearing khaki cargo shorts and a navy t-shirt splattered with mint-green house paint. He was pulling cash out of his wallet to pay for his bait, leaning over the counter.

"Will? Will Graham?" she asks. She's frozen in front of a fixture of Sugarloaf souvenir t-shirts, a thousand things she wants to say to him spinning in her head ("I didn't doubt you, even au after we found the ear, I knew you weren't a killer. I wanted so bad to believe you weren't a killer, even after we found the lures...")

He spins around, confused. "What?" He must finally recognise her after a minute, because his expression flattens out and he suddenly tenses up, eyes narrowing. "Oh. Beverly."

"How are you?" She decides it's best to keep it neutral, because she wouldn't know where else to even begin ("Sorry I helped send you to an insane asylum for murders you didn't commit," just didn't have the right ring to it).

"Good," he says tersely. "What are you doing here?"

"Vacation. Me and the guys from the lab are here for the week. And you?"

"I live here."

"Oh. That's...good." There are a million things Bev wants to tell Will, starting with how she wished she'd done more, how she'd give anything to take that bitter look on his face away with all the betrayal he must have gone through.

But Will disappears out of the shop and into a rusty Ford pickup truck before Beverly can even get started.

* * *

Chilton swears Lecter has had no access to the Internet, no visitors beyond Freddie Lounds (who Lecter had said nothiing to beyond a few insults) and a few other assorted psych students and reporters (who Lecter either reduced to tears or simply refused to talk to) and no mail that Chilton had kept from Lecter, but the yellow-beige manila envelope in Jack's hand would is evidence to the contrary.

It's addressed to 'Agent Jack Crawford' in black felt-tip marker in Lecter's distinctive copperplate, and contains a letter written on two pieces of soft white butcher paper.

Jack has the letter all but memorised by the time he surrenders it as evidence. Chilton assures Jack he's taken away all of Lecter's 'luxuries' and is doing all he can to get Lecter to confess and tell him how he sent the letter, but it doesn't matter.

Lecter wants a reaction from Jack, and Jack won't gratify him like that.

* * *

_Dear Jack,_

_They say that victory comes at a high sacrificial cost. In your mind, was the price of an end to my public career sacrificing Will Graham? You placed him on the altar like a lamb for slaughter, after all._

_You pushed him into the darkness, Jack, and you let it consume him. You used him. You could see the signs he was getting too close, could you not? Yet you used him anyways. You ignored his cries for help and his own acknowledgement that this was going to destroy him. Yet you guilted him and goaded him into continuing, just as Dr. Chilton goaded Abel Gideon into becoming the Ripper. You refused to acknowledge his own encroaching mental destruction until it was too late. You knew what you were doing to Will Graham._

_In chess, an amateur player often moves his queen into play as soon as possible, as the queen is regarded in amateur eyes as the most powerful piece. (It is, of course, not. Truly, it is the humble pawn, neglected and abused by the amateur player, ignored, who may rise to become any piece desired if put correctly into play, that is most powerful.)_

_But you are not an amateur, are you, Agent Crawford? Did you underestimate, or were you lazy? You played chess in school; you know of the fool's mate, how to win a chess match in two turns--white pawn one space to F3, black pawn two spaces to E5, white pawn two spaces to G4, black queen to H4, checkmate. Game over. Did you imagine that a fellow chess master would not recognise your moves for what they were and take the obvious steps to avoid them? Did you truly believe you could capture the Ripper with a chess trick from your schoolboy days?_

_Or, perhaps, did you not see that you were but a piece in a much, much larger game?_

_I took your queen out of the game, but I have heard dear Will has made his way to the Florida Keys. Is it true, Agent Crawford? Perhaps I shall pay him a visit when I return from the inconvenience of this incarceration. Let us reset the board and start afresh. I will allow you to go first. You knew what you were doing to Will Graham._

_It is your move, Agent Crawford. Do not disappoint me._

_Your old friend,_

_Hannibal Lecter, MD_

* * *

When Jack sees Will next, on the porch of a bungalow in the Florida Keys' sweltering heat, he can't help the sudden rush of guilt at the bitter betrayal in Will's eyes.

Jack forces a polite smile, even as in the back of his mind he can envision a chessboard.

White pawn on F2, one space forward to F3.

_Your move, Dr. Lecter._

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from 'You Were A Boxer' by Pacific Ocean Fire, a song for Will Graham if I'd ever heard one.


End file.
